


Joystick

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Community: ds_flashfiction, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-21 23:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17652182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: Ray, Fraser and a Pac Man arcade game





	Joystick

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Video Games challenge at [ds-flashfiction](https://ds-flashfiction.dreamwidth.org%22).

 

“Hey, willya look at that?” Ray veers towards the corner of the diner, where there stands a large box like a purple plastic sarcophagus stood on end. “Pac Man! This must be about the last arcade game left in the whole freakin’ city.” He pats the casing, runs his fingers over the controls. “You ever play?"

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Fraser replies. “I suppose there might have been arcade games in Regina when I was at Depot, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I took note of at the time. Most of my postings have been in remote locations where novel technologies—particularly those designed purely for entertainment—are slow to penetrate.”

Ray snorts in apparent amusement as he runs his fingers over the controls. “So, you never used a joystick, is what you’re saying?”

“I do know how to pilot a small aircraft—well, I know the rudiments. I’m not licensed.” 

Ray shakes his head. “Yeah, not that kind of joystick, and I don’t mean have you ever driven a crane, either.” He shuffles to one side, making room for Fraser to squeeze in beside him.

The main control does, indeed, resemble the joystick of a vintage airplane. There is, additionally, a large plastic button to either side of the stick. On the screen, a yellow creature—a circle with a rhythmically opening and closing mouth—navigates through a maze filled with blinking dots and colorful monsters. 

“This doesn’t appear to be a flight simulator,” Fraser points out.

“Yeah, no, that was just the standard control they used on these things. Don’t know why. Maybe it came from flight simulators, but I bet you, kids hear the name _joystick,_ the first thing they think of ain’t gonna be airplanes.” Ray gives an incongruously naughty smirk. . .and then Fraser gets the joke. _Joystick._ Yes, well. 

“You, ah, you have experience with this game, I take it?” Fraser asks inanely, doing a poor job of covering his embarrassment. Off-color jokes are the coin of the realm nearly everywhere, he supposes, particularly in single-gender company, and it isn’t that he _objects_ , as such, when the humor is simply sexual rather than derogatory. It’s just that he’s never been able to accustom himself to that sort of thing, and Ray’s devilish expression is no help at all when it comes to keeping his composure. 

At least Ray is gazing idly at the screen, rather than looking at Fraser.

“I played some,” Ray replies with a shrug. “I was too old by the time arcade games came along, they’re mostly for kids, but you know, they were a thing, sometimes you get bored.” 

His fingers cupped loosely around the joystick, his thumb caresses the button on top in a manner far more suggestive than he intends, surely. Mesmerized by the gesture, Fraser is struck with a pornographic image of mouth-watering intensity that sends heat flooding to his cheeks.

“Wanna give it a try?” asks Ray, releasing his hold on the stick and digging in his jeans pocket. “I think I got some quarters on me.”

“No, ah. . .” Fraser clears his throat, wishing it were as easy to clear his head of the thought of those slender, flexible fingers circling, touching, teasing. . . “You go ahead. Ah, that is, if you like.”

Ray shoots him a suspicious look. Fraser knows his guilty thoughts must be painted in crimson across his face, but Ray just blinks once, twice, and then turns back to the machine, dropping a quarter into the slot with one hand as he grips the joystick, more firmly this time, in the other.

The machine bursts into music and new pictures flicker in Fraser’s peripheral vision, but he can’t be bothered to pay attention to the screen. Instead, he watches Ray’s hands, the one working the stick and the other braced against the machine’s casing. Ray’s warm body is pressed up against his own all along one side, occasionally jostling him as Ray jigs and jounces with the rhythms of the game. Now and then he makes a soft grunt of frustration or a pleased “ha!” And his hand, curved around the joystick, so close to the way it might cradle something else, if Ray’s careless joke had been made with intent, if Fraser had the right to ask, to invite, to presume. . .

The machine’s noise changes abruptly and Ray’s off-hand slaps down in mild frustration.

“I was never any good at this, and I’m way out of practice,” he says as he fishes another quarter out of his pocket. A casual flick of his thumb sends the coin spinning into the air to land neatly in his palm. “See, this was always the thing with these games. They’d suck all your money down, one quarter at a time. Had to be careful. You want a turn?”

Fraser swallows as Ray looks at him. They’re standing close enough to breathe each other’s air, close enough to kiss—and now he’s helpless to keep from imagining _that._ Ray’s lips on his. Ray’s lips. . .everywhere. . .even. . . 

“I—I’ll pass,” he whispers.

Ray frowns. “You okay? You look kinda—”

“I’m fine,” Fraser assures him. “Never better. Go on and—this is fascinating, a learning experience, truly.” 

None of it is even a lie.

Ray considers him for what seems like an endless moment, then takes him at his word and drops the quarter into the slot.

“Okay, buddy, hold onto your socks, this time I’m gonna really show you how it’s done!”

Only in his dreams, Fraser knows. But for now, as Ray’s hand curls around the joystick once again, that’s good enough.


End file.
